ADITI SHIVARAMAKRISHNAN

These are just some of the hashtag-heavy movements I’ve encountered at the intersection of identity and style, as a 1. chronically online, 2. millennial, 3. Singaporean Tamil, 4. daughter of immigrant parents, coming of age in the era of representation politics and discussions around cultural appropriation.

While these movements were likely well-intentioned and meaningful to many who found community in solidarity, they were not without their limitations and flaws either. In her 2018 essay The Problem with Diaspora Art, the critic Zarina Muhammad critiqued such art for its “vague universality that skims over sticky intersections” like caste, sexuality, class, region and religious specificity, and in her recent follow-up The Problem with Diaspora Art 2 noted how “an Authentic or Essential Asian-ness […] just doesn’t or cannot exist. […] There’s no universal Asianness because Asia is not a monolith”.

Over the years, my own politics and values in relation to “authentic” style have turned more inward. For my personal context as a Singaporean Tamil daughter of immigrant parents from India, my inclinations when it comes to self-expression through fashion lie somewhere between the inevitable influence of mainstream trends, my own tastes, and, frankly, the desire to not have to explain myself repeatedly if I happen to wear Indian clothes to the workplace, for example, outside of any specific occasion (no, there’s no ongoing festival; no, I’m not attending a wedding or going to the temple today).

With time and the financial means as an adult to — modestly — indulge my enthusiasm for playing dress-up, I’ve been able to cultivate alternative ways in which I form connections with my culture on my own terms, through what I choose to wear, and accessorise my outfits with.

1.

From band tees to slogan tees, a black graphic T-shirt is a staple in many wardrobes. My favourite one is designed by Indian-American artist Chiraag Bhakta, who also creates work under the name *Pardon My Hindi.

Featuring his artwork Fast Friends, the T-shirt depicts the striking figure of two women adorned with what seems like a variation on a saree, jewellery and flowers in their hair.

The woman in the background has her chin tucked into the crook of the other’s neck and shoulder, and her fingers rest gently on the wrist of the figure in the foreground. Both stare directly at the viewer, as though daring them to define the relationship between them. I delight in asking anyone who compliments me on the T-shirt whether they think these two women are sisters or lovers — just to queer everything a little.

3.

Silver was popular in my youth (the heyday of chains like Silvera and Bits & Pieces in the 2000s, followed by Pandora), but nowadays, I gravitate towards gold, which I was initially suspicious of for the ways in which it is, for South Asian women, complicatedly tied up with heteronormative, patriarchal expectations of marriage and domesticity.

2.

Like many fashion lovers, I eagerly anticipated the day when I could buy my first vintage or contemporary piece by a designer whose work I admired. High on my wishlist was Issey Miyake, whose pieces I like for their versatility, wearability and delightfully unpredictable runway shows.

By coincidence, just shortly after his death, I spotted on Depop a Pleats Please top that featured Tamil characters, partially obscured. Curious what the word could be, I exchanged a few messages with the Paris-based seller, who was equally enthusiastic, to try and learn more about the provenance of the print, but it was inconclusive. The chance encounter felt serendipitous, and I felt that this was the piece I was meant to have, and so I took the leap of purchasing it. Till now, I am not sure what the full word is, but am optimistic that someday, a fellow Tamil person will notice the top while I’m wearing it out in the world, and we may have a conversation about it.

Nowadays, I regularly wear a few pieces of gold(-coloured) jewellery gifted or loaned to me by important women in my life: a ring from my maternal grandmother, another that is my mother’s, a third from a dear friend; tiny hoops by TANAÏS from which dangle open palms dotted with alta, a red dye applied on women’s hands and feet for occasions such as festivals, marriage ceremonies and cultural performances.

Tanaïs, the multi-hyphenate maker of my abovementioned earrings, is also an accomplished perfumer and author of the memoir In Sensorium: Notes For My People. They beautifully describe scents as “an evocation, a portal into another time, place, or memory”. Rather unoriginally, but sincerely, I too was obsessed for a period with Santal 33, the cult-favourite sandalwood scent from Le Labo Fragrances. But when I got my first whiff of Matí by Tanaïs, that changed forever. With notes of mitti attar from the Ganges River, rose, sea salt and cocoa, Matí is a scent meant to be inhaled deeply and savoured. It transports me to an environment I have never actually inhabited in this life but which feels familiar, deep in my bones. It is the life-giving scent of wet earth after the rain.

Though it is a constant work-in-progress, it is affirming — and a privilege — to be able to choose to dress myself in clothing and accessories that originate from individuals and collectives whose ethics align with mine. Tanaïs too resists the idea of a monolithic South Asian identity or experience, stating that “part of the narrative we need to deepen in our understanding of South Asian [identity] is knowing how acknowledging difference has really been a part of undoing domination”.

Tanaïs adds: “One of the things that you learn as you try to decolonize yourself is that you speak in a language that is not necessarily your mother tongue. You hold yourself and carry yourself and dress yourself and adorn yourself in clothes that are of the culture in which you are living, but then there are all these other modes of adornment that also belong to us.”

A bit like how they seek to reclaim materials historically wrested away from the peoples they belonged to, and to use them in their craft — jewellery, perfumes makeup — I too seek through my style choices to embrace and represent the multitude of identities I inhabit, outside of simplistic binaries, stereotypes and hashtags. Through fashion, I express the nuanced realities of my life, both the aspects that bring joy and frustrate me. Through fashion, I seek not to explain myself and speak for my community, but with them as we cross paths by chance or seek each other out, as we move through the world.

ADITI SHIVARAMAKRISHNAN is an editor and writer in Singapore. Her work has been published in ArtsEquator, gal-dem, Portside Review, SEASONINGS Magazine and elsewhere. Find her at aditishiva.com.